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摸彩：雪莉·杰克逊短篇小说选

我知道我爱着谁|I Know Who I Love

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 雪莉-杰克逊] 阅读：[15534]
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凯瑟琳·文森特在纽约的一套两居室的公寓里开始了她的新生活。她出生于布法罗的一个牧师家庭，这种生活的改变对于她而言，可能是个悲剧。当魔鬼提醒威廉·文森特结婚时，并没有提醒威廉要进一步搞清楚他妻子生的究竟是男孩还是女孩，或者就是凯瑟琳（是最后根据威廉母亲的名字而起的名）这样的女孩，瘦弱、胆怯，有着一双蓝汪汪的眼睛，降临人世时，发出一声尖声哭喊。

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凯瑟琳二十三岁时，发现她父亲本来更想要一个儿子，如果他不得不要孩子的话。这时的她仍然瘦弱，一双湛蓝的眼睛，好像很容易受到惊吓，对于绘画有那么点儿天赋。她最终独自一人去了纽约，在那段日子里，她自力更生，几乎已经忘记了她的父亲，还有奄奄一息的母亲。

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威廉·文森特是个矮胖的男人，蓄着浓密的胡子，他觉着这样会让他看上去更像一家之主。在结婚前不久，他就已经成为一名牧师了，因为他那时有一种模模糊糊的想法，只有这样，他才能成为正确的、有德行的人，才能更容易地保住他的权威。他不惧内，他的妻子是一位并不富裕的杂货店店主的独生女，但他却害怕隔壁的女人，还有银行中活跃的年轻人，甚至害怕肉店送货的伙计。因为他会在讨账时扮着鬼脸，口无遮拦，但又无法受到指摘。威廉·文森特把他的女儿看作多余的负担，犹如一个陷阱，是上帝意志错误的表达。他认为他的妻子和蔼可亲，但她的身份只是个家庭主妇。实际上，他觉着唯一可以亲近的人是上帝，而上帝在厚厚的《圣经》里，在沉闷的祷告词中，在破败的教堂里和在廉价的赞美诗中。凯瑟琳很小就习惯听见她的父亲在小书桌或者笨重的餐桌的一头说：“在上帝或者我的眼中，你的所作所为是符合要求的吗？”

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凯瑟琳离开家以后，甚至就在火车驶出车站的那一刻，她就把父母都忘在脑后了。只是在后来，她每周要往家里写一封信。（“我现在很好，我的感冒也终于好了。工作也不错，他们跟我说，我请三天病假没什么关系。但我想我可能有一段时间不能请假了，所以短时间内就不能回家了。”）她父亲在书桌那头的问话，母亲怯生生的笑声，在脑海中被她毅然决然地连根拔除了。在她二十三岁时，她的母亲去世了。

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医生在房间里，凯瑟琳在公寓外面的门厅里等着，在她母亲弥留的最后几分钟里医生陪在她母亲的身边，“她什么话也没留下，”医生说道，“她走得很平静，文森特小姐。”

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“好的。”凯瑟琳低声说道。她的母亲早就开始挣扎在死亡线上了，并在春天终于咽了气。明年她还想买一件皮毛大衣呢，这下子泡了汤。“下一步我应该做些什么安排？”她茫然若失地挥了一下手，向医生问道，“比如葬礼，以及其他诸如此类的事情？”

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医生看了凯瑟琳一会儿，“我会在这些事上帮助你的。”他说道。

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凯瑟琳用柔和的声音对前来悼念又不太熟识的人说话，他们赞扬她的勇敢，或者轻拍她的手，宽慰她说她的母亲现在应该更幸福。“她现在和你亲爱的父亲在一起了，”公寓楼的一位保洁员阿姨对凯瑟琳说，“他们最后又可以团圆了。”

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葬礼结束了，凯瑟琳送走了她的母亲。凯瑟琳又把公寓恢复成了她母亲过来跟她一起生活之前的样子。多余的床已经搬出去了，小桌子又搬回了窗户旁。她花了五美元给扶手椅配了一个新坐垫，让人把窗帘也洗干净了。她母亲唯一留下的东西是一件旧行李箱，里面充满了她母亲的记忆和希望。卖掉布法罗老家的家具等杂物所获得的少量的钱已经支付了葬礼的花销，凯瑟琳用她的工资和省下的准备买皮大衣的钱支付了医生的费用和药费，她跟大楼的负责人商量把她母亲的行李箱保存到地下室的储物间里。在行李箱被搬走的头一天傍晚，她打开了它，确保里面放了樟脑球，并拿出了她可能会用到的东西。最后，像是要恪尽儿女之道，她开始回忆起了父母生活的点滴。

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有那么一两分钟，对父母的回忆夹杂在了其他如潮水般涌来的记忆当中。干瘦的老师一把将画从凯瑟琳手中抓过去，大声吼道：“我早就应该想到，这种笨蛋根本完不成作业。”回忆中又浮现出一个名叫弗雷迪的小男孩，用粉笔在一个篱笆上写着什么，然后又慌乱地擦掉，待他跑开之后，能够看出他一直焦急地想擦去，空洞而暧昧的文字——“凯瑟琳爱弗雷迪。”接着，又想到她父亲问她的话，“凯瑟琳，你们学校的男孩和女孩们在一起时会谈论不好的事情吗？”再接着，又回忆起一或两个开过的派对，以及那件她母亲给她做的印花雪纺绸裙子。还有她父亲让她去邻居家要回她借给同学的一枚五分硬币。再有她母亲的话，“亲爱的，我觉得你父亲不怎么喜欢那个叫简的小女孩。如果我去跟她交涉的话，我会把话说得很婉转……”

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她自己还记得，自己曾梦想有一天会衣锦还乡，成了著名的艺术家，带着一名秘书，手捧一大束栀子花，从火车上走下来时，一大堆人在等着她的亲笔签名。弗雷迪也在那儿，拼命往前挤着，凯瑟琳稍稍一侧身，说道：“我想你一定是搞错了，我对一个名叫弗雷迪的家伙一点儿也不上心。”凯瑟琳在班里个头最高，也很瘦，在课间休息的时候跟其他在班里不怎么受欢迎的女生说：“我父亲不愿意我和男孩子们约会。他们热衷的那些事儿，你是知道的。”放学以后，她和一位年轻漂亮的女老师待在一起的时候，她问道：“你难道不喜欢玛丽·罗伯茨·莱因哈特的作品吗，亨伍德小姐？我觉得她是个特别棒的作家。”

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学校里的女生把凯瑟琳叫作“凯蒂”，而老师和她的父母则叫她“凯瑟琳”，后来，办公室的女同事们把她叫作“卡迪”或者“吉蒂”。但那时艾伦称她为“凯拉”，甚至在一张他写给凯瑟琳的小纸条上，开始用“怪凯拉”来称呼她。在布法罗的时候，凯瑟琳手里攥着艾伦的纸条，晚上坐在打开的窗户旁，抬头望着满天的星星。她的父亲在楼下充满怀疑地走来走去。而在纽约，她眼睁睁看着母亲离世。

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“发火的凯蒂，就像支风笛。”凯瑟琳清楚地记得校园中传诵的顺口溜，还有从一张书桌传到另一张书桌的小纸条。她把脚搭在已故母亲的行李箱上，能够感觉到椅子软垫靠背抵着她肩膀。她看着公寓窗户下面车水马龙的大街，明白自己第二天还得上班挣钱时，过去的一切在她的脑海中翻滚。“发火的凯蒂，就像支风笛。”凯瑟琳舒心地微笑着，她记得在过去曾参加过的某个派对上，大家玩过一个亲吻游戏。那是文法学校的毕业派对。人群后面的凯瑟琳，出人意料地被人推上前去亲吻一个男孩（哪个男孩来着？她现在想弄明白，难道又是弗雷迪？），而那个男孩子边向后退，边说道：“嘿，听着，别闹。”而凯瑟琳则不知所措地站在那儿。接着就听见有人喊道：“凯蒂的爸爸不让她亲吻男孩子。”凯瑟琳想为她父亲辩护，于是开始否认，后来她意识到如果承认了绝对会更糟糕，那个男孩子已经从她身边跑开了。事后，她跟那些在休息的时间同样不受欢迎的女生说：“我父亲不会让我参加玩那种游戏的派对了。”或者“如果我父亲抓住我正在做那些疯女孩所做的事，我就死定了！”

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她后来上了商科学院，因为她的父亲需要有人帮他整理有朝一日他会写下的大量布道经书或经文，在他的观念中，有一个秘书才是成功的标志。商科学院的一切她并不陌生。漂亮的女生们都上了大学，凯瑟琳和剩下的、傻乎乎的、或胖或瘦的女生在一起，她们也都很有活力，曾经迷恋过男教师。学校中的男生大多数都很认真和勤奋，他们会在大厅里停下脚步，询问凯瑟琳对打字测验怎么看，还有她是否已经记下了今天的作业。艾伦是在学期中间转学来的，他当时穿着一件黄色的运动衫，突然出现在打字课上，教室里的学生悄声坐在打字机旁，观察着他。他站在那儿，又瘦又小，但是仪态很优雅，面带微笑。

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“我立刻就爱上了你，”后来凯瑟琳告诉他，“我不知道是什么打动了我。”

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有一次凯瑟琳脑袋一热，几乎是脱口而出地问她母亲，“妈妈，你爱我爸爸吗？”

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“凯瑟琳，”她的母亲叫道，洗碗的手一动不动了，“出什么事了，亲爱的？”

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在凯瑟琳的生活中，高中阶段是最难熬的。当别的女生穿着毛衣或者鹿皮夹克，收集明星签名时，凯瑟琳穿着款式难看的羊毛外套像个丑小鸭似的坐在教室里。有一次，用父亲从他兄弟那儿借来的钱，母亲给凯瑟琳买了一件深绿色的毛衣和

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Catharine Vincent began her life in a two-room apartment in New York; she was born in a minister’s home in Buffalo; the shift from one to the other might be called her tragedy. When the devil prompted William Vincent to marry he did not prompt William further to inquire if his wife were to bear sons or daughters, or if the daughter were to be Catharine (named after William’s mother, finally), thin and frightened, born with a scream and blue eyes.

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When Catharine was twenty-three years old she found out that her father would have preferred a son, if he had to have any child at all. At that time she was still thin and noticeably frightened, with blue eyes and a faint talent for painting. She had eventually gone to New York alone; by the time she was self-supporting she had nearly forgotten her father, and her mother was dying.

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William Vincent was a short heavy man, who affected a large mustache, which he thought made him look more the master of his house. He had become a minister shortly before his marriage because he had a vague feeling that in that way he was somehow certain of being right, and virtuous, and easily sure of his authority. He was not afraid of his wife, who was the only daughter of a grocer with no money, but he was afraid of the lady next door, and the brisk young man at the bank, and the butcher’s delivery boy who made faces over unpaid bills, and asked insolent questions for which he could not be rebuked. William Vincent regarded his daughter as an unnecessary expense, as a trap, and as no true expression of God’s will. He thought of his wife as an amiable woman whose place was in the home; practically the only person he felt really close to was God, in the heavy Bibles and the ponderous words, in the shabby church and the cheap hymns. Catharine early grew accustomed to hearing her father say across his small desk, or along the dull dinner table, “Do you think you are satisfactory, in God’s sight or mine?”

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After Catharine left home, while the train was pulling out of the station, she stopped thinking about her father and mother, except, later, for a weekly letter home. (“I am fine now, my cold is all gone at last. My job is fine, and they said it was all right about my being away three days. I guess I won’t be able to leave work again for a while, so cannot expect to come home just yet.”) Her father across the desk, her mother’s small timid laugh, were emphatically and resolutely put out of her mind, until she was twenty-three and her mother died.

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The doctor was there and Catharine waited outside in the apartment-house hall while the doctor and her mother spent the last few minutes together. “She never spoke at all,” the doctor said. “She died very peacefully, Miss Vincent.”

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“Good,” Catharine said. Her mother had waited until spring to die; next year she could have a fur coat. “What do I have to do about making arrangements?” she asked the doctor, waving her hand vaguely. “About burying her, and so on?”

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The doctor looked at Catharine for a minute. “I’ll help you with all that,” he said.

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Catharine spoke to strange people with soft voices, who told her she was brave, or patted her hand and told her her mother was happier now. “She’s with your dear father,” the maid in the apartment house said to Catharine, “They’re together again at last.”

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With the funeral over and her mother gone, Catharine put the apartment back the way it had been before her mother came to live with her. The extra bed was moved out and the little table went back by the window. She spent five dollars on a new slip cover for the armchair, and she had the curtains cleaned. The only thing left of her mother was the old trunk full of her mother’s memories and hopes. The little money from the sale of the furniture stored in Buffalo had paid for the funeral; Catharine had paid for the doctor and the medicine out of her salary and her fur-coat money. She asked the superintendent to put her mother’s trunk in the basement storage room, and the evening before he took it down she opened it, to make sure everything was in moth balls and to take out anything she could use, and, finally, to set her mind dutifully to thinking of her parents.

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For a minute or two her parents’ memory would be centered in a flood of other memories, the thin teacher who snatched the drawing out of Catharine’s hand and snarled, “I should have known better than to assign this to a stupid halfwit.” Coming upon a boy named Freddie frantically rubbing out an inscription in chalk on a fence, and, when Freddie ran away, reading with hollow empty sympathy words he had been so anxiously erasing: “Catharine loves Freddie.” And then her father: “Catharine, do the girls and boys in your school talk to each other about bad things?” The one or two parties, and the flowered chiffon dress her mother made. Her father sending her next door to get back a nickel she had lent to a school friend. And her mother: “I hardly think, dear, that your father would approve of that little girl. Jane. If I were to speak to her, very tactfully...”

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And herself, coming back someday, a famous artist with a secretary and gardenias, stepping off the train where they were all waiting for autographs. And there was Freddie, pressing forward, and Catharine, turning slightly aside, said, “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I never cared for anyone named Freddie.” The tallest in the class, and thin, telling the other unpopular girls at recess: “My father doesn’t like me to go out with boys. You know, the things they do.” And finally, after school, staying by the pretty young teacher, saying, “Don’t you like Mary Roberts Rinehart, Miss Henwood? I think she’s a terribly good author.”

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The girls in school had called Catharine “Catty,” the teachers and her mother and father had called her “Catharine,” the girls in her office called her “Katy” or “Kitty,” but Aaron had called her “Cara,” “Strange Cara,” the one note from him began. Catharine had held it in her hands, sitting by an open window at night and looking at the stars, in Buffalo, with her father moving around suspiciously downstairs; in New York, with her mother dead.

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“Ratty Catty, sure is batty.” Catharine remembered the jingle from the schoolyard and the notes passed from desk to desk, remembered it and turned it over in her mind while she leaned back with her feet on her dead mother’s trunk and felt the soft upholstered chair against her shoulders, saw the traffic moving in the street below her apartment window, knew her job and her paycheck were waiting for her the next day. “Ratty Catty, sure is batty.” Catharine smiled comfortably. There had been a kissing game at one of the few parties she went to, a grammar-school graduation party, and Catharine, in the background, had unexpectedly had to come forward to kiss a boy (what boy? she wondered now. Freddie again?). And the boy, moving backward, saying, “Hey, listen,” while Catharine stood uncertainly. Then someone had shouted, “Catty’s father won’t let her kiss a boy,” and Catharine, trying to protect her father, had begun a denial before she realized that it was infinitely worse to admit that the boy had turned away from her. Then she told people, the other unpopular girls during recess, “My father won’t let me go to the parties where they play that kind of game,” or, “If my father ever caught me doing what those other girls do!”

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She went to business school, because her father needed someone to help him with his numerous notes and the books of sermons he might write someday, and held the idea of a secretary in his mind as a signal of success. At business school she was no stranger; the pretty girls had all gone on to college, and Catharine was with the other thin dull girls or fat girls who were vivacious and had crushes on the men instructors. The boys in the school were mostly earnest and hard-working, and stopped in the halls to ask Catharine what she thought of the typing test, and whether she had taken down today’s assignment. Aaron came to the school in mid-semester, wearing a yellow sweater suddenly into the typing class, standing thin and small and graceful and smiling while the rows of students sat mutely at their typewriters watching him.

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“I fell in love with you right away,” Catharine told him afterward. “I never knew what hit me.”

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Once Catharine had asked her mother impulsively and injudiciously, “Mother, did you fall in love with my father?”

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“Catharine,” her mother said, letting her hands stand quiet in the dishwater, “is there anything wrong, dear?”

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High school had been worse for Catharine than any other time in her life. When the other girls wore sweaters or deer jackets and collected autographs, Catharine sat awkwardly under a badly designed wool dress. Once, with money her father borrowed from his brother, her mother bought Catharine a dark-green sweater and skirt, and when Catharine came into school that morning, one girl said, “What’d you do, rob a fire sale?” and another said, “Look at Catty, in the sweater she knit herself.” Years later, Catharine told Aaron, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and her cigarette smoke blowing into her eyes, “I don’t like clothes, at all. I think everyone makes too much fuss over them. I think the human body is too fine.” When the girls with high-heeled shoes and curly hair went to sophomore proms and senior balls, Catharine and her three or four friends gave little hen parties where they served one another cocoa and cake, and said, “You’d be cute, honestly, Catty, if you had a permanent and wore some make-up.” And Catharine, blushing, “My father would kill me.” “You’ve got nice skin, though. Mine’s always breaking out.” “No, it isn’t,” Catharine said, or, “You’re not fat, really. I only wish I looked like you, honestly.”

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A terrible thing happened to Catharine in her junior year in high school. One of her friends was to usher in a show put on by the local chapter of the American Legion. It was a performance of The Mikado and daughters of some of the members were going to usher, in evening gowns, with a chance to help with the make-up. Edna was the name of Catharine’s friend, and the third and last night of the performance Edna managed to get Catharine invited to usher in place of another girl who was sick. At seven o’clock Catharine, in a blue crepe dress of her mother’s which fitted badly and was cruelly improvised over the shoulders with a white organdy frill, met Edna in the lobby of the auditorium; Mrs. Vincent, who had come over on the streetcar with Catharine, said to Edna, “You’ll be sure and see that Catharine gets home all right?”

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“My mother and father are going to drive her home,” Edna said. Mrs. Vincent kissed Catharine good-by, gave one sweeping suspicious glance over the auditorium, and went out to take the streetcar home. “How do I look?” Edna asked. “Look at me.” She held out her skirt and Catharine, horrified, realized that Edna, with her bad complexion and straight hair, looked lovely. “I got a finger wave,” Edna said, “and I’m wearing lipstick.” Catharine realized even then that once or twice in any girl’s life there will be an evening when she looks beautiful; she was not used enough to being ugly to be content to wait until an hour or two of beauty could do her real service. “You look wonderful,” Catharine said sickly, “how do I look?” She held her coat open and Edna said, “You look beautiful, listen, we’re going to the party for the cast after.”

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Catharine stayed long enough after the performance to see Edna, with her finger wave uncurling damply and her wide skirts trailing after her, dancing dreamily in the arms of a stout middle-aged man who had been in the chorus; he giggled when he whispered in Edna’s ear, and Edna rolled her eyes and slapped his face lightly, while her mother and father, tired and proud, sat at the side of the room and greeted casual acquaintances eagerly.

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Catharine walked home, all the way, holding up the blue crepe skirt and not afraid that anyone would notice her. “It’s the ugliest thing I ever saw,” she was whispering to herself. “Daddy will be furious.” Then, only a block from her home, she thought she was a beautiful glorious creature, walking in a garden, her long skirts moving softly over the ground, graceful, with people thronging around her for her autograph. “Please,” she said softly, waving a fan, “please don’t say I’m beautiful... I’m not really, you know,” and a chorus of protests drowned out her voice, and she yielded, laughing softly.

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Her father forbade her to speak to Edna again, and wrote Edna’s father a sharp note, which was ignored. Her mother had to have the blue dress cleaned, because of the dirt on the hem.

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“I don’t think the ordinary run of person is able to recognize beauty when they see it,” Catharine told Aaron later, years later. “I think that your common person tramples on beauty because it is so far above him.”

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“You always were an ungrateful, spoiled child,” her mother said, moving uneasily on the bed.

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“You’re living off me, aren’t you?” Catharine answered indifferently. “You eat, don’t you? Doesn’t the doctor come twice a week to see you?”

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“You never had a spark of affection in you,” her mother said.

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“Something must make me take care of you and feed you,” Catharine said.

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Her mother pulled at the blankets, her hands thin and powerless. “I don’t know what I did to deserve a daughter like you.”

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“You must have taken the Lord’s name in vain,” Catharine said. She was standing leaning against the doorway to the kitchenette, waiting for her mother’s oatmeal to cook. She had had a long and dismal day at the office, it was getting on toward winter (the winter when she could have had a cheap fur coat if her mother had not come) and her mother showed no signs of getting better or worse. She was almost completely careless of everything except that she was twenty-three years old, and still tied down; the romance and glory of her life waiting still.

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“If your poor father could hear that.”

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“My poor father can’t hear anything,” Catharine said, “and I’m happy about it.”

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Her mother tried to rise on the bed, tried to soften Catharine with tears in her eyes. “He was a good father to you, Catharine. You shouldn’t say evil things like that.”

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Catharine laughed and went into the kitchenette.

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When Catharine was twelve her mother tried to give her a party. She bought little invitation cards at the five and ten, and paper hats and small baskets to hold candies. She bought ice cream and made a cake, and bought a game of pin-the-tail-onthe donkey. “The whole thing didn’t cost but about three dollars,” she told Catharine’s father. “I took most of the money out of my house money this week.”

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“There’s no reason why Catharine should have expensive entertainments,” her father said, frowning. “Her position as my daughter explains the absence of worldly frivolity in her life.”

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“The child has never had a party before,” her mother said firmly.

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“I don’t want a party,” Catharine told herself, alone upstairs in her room, lying on the bed. “I don’t want any of the kids to come here.” Her mother sent out the little invitations (Catharine Vincent, Thursday, August 24th, 2-5), and almost all of the twelve children invited had come.

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The party was a miserable failure. Catharine, in an old dress with new collar and cuffs, and her mother in the dress she wore to church, greeted the guests at the door and sat them down in the living room where the little baskets of candy sat around on tables. The guests took the candy one piece at a time, played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey as long as Mrs. Vincent wanted them to, and then sat quietly until one of them thought to say she ought to be getting home now. “But you haven’t had your ice cream,” Catharine’s mother cried with bright gaiety, “you can’t leave before the ice cream.” Catharine’s memories of that party were of her mother, working furiously, laughing and humming when she walked from place to place, her old dress showing constantly among the party dresses of the children; her mother saying “Well, don’t you look pretty!” and “You must be the smartest little girl in Catharine’s class.”

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Afterward, at the dinner table, her mother said encouragingly, “Did you enjoy your party, dear?”

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“I told you they’d act like that,” Catharine said without emotion. “They don’t like me.”

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“Catharine has no business wanting parties if her friends don’t know how to behave to her mother,” Mr. Vincent said, devoting himself to a platter of liver and bacon. “You’ve worn yourself out and spent a lot of money to let the child have something she didn’t need to have.”

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“Remember the party you gave for me?” Catharine said to her mother lying on the bed. “Remember that terrible party you insisted on having?”

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“You are an ungrateful daughter,” her mother said, moving under the blankets. “You always were a cold thoughtless child.”

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One day when Catharine was about fourteen her mother came into the bedroom where Catharine was cleaning her dresser drawers. Sitting on the bed, her mother said to Catharine’s back, “Your father wants me to talk to you, Catharine.”

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Catharine, frozen, went on piling handkerchiefs and folding scarves. “What does he want you to talk to me about?”

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“He thinks it’s time I spoke to you,” her mother said unhappily.

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All the time her mother talked, apologizing and fumbling, Catharine sat on the floor folding and unfolding a scarf. “Have the girls at school been talking about things like this?” her mother asked once.

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“All the time,” Catharine said.

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“You mustn’t listen,” her mother said earnestly. “Your father and I are equipped to tell you the truth, the girls at school don’t know anything. Catharine, I want you to promise me never to talk to anyone but your mother and father about these things.”

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“If I have any questions I’ll ask Daddy,” Catharine said.

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“Don’t laugh at your mother and father,” her mother said.

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Catharine turned around to look at her mother. “Are you all finished?” Her mother nodded. “Then please let’s never talk about it again,” Catharine said. “I don’t want to talk about it again, ever.”

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“Neither do I,” her mother said angrily. “It’s hard enough to tell you anything at all, young lady, without having to talk about delicate subjects.”

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“You tell Daddy you told me,” Catharine said as her mother went out the door.

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“Did you love my father?” Catharine asked her mother lying on the bed, “did you ever love my father, Mother?”

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“You never loved him,” her mother said, moving against the pillow, “you were an ungrateful child.”

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“When you married him did you think you were going to be happy?”

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“He was a good husband,” her mother said, “he tried very hard to be a good father, but you only wanted to make trouble. All your life.”

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Catharine sat on the edge of the seat; she was nineteen and her hands were neatly on the booth table, her books beside her, her eyes on the door. If only someone comes in, just this once, she was thinking, if only one of the girls could see me, just this once.

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“You look très sérieuse,” Aaron said. “Coffee?”

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“Yes, please,” Catharine said.

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“Now listen,” Aaron said. “I ask you to come out for coffee with me because I think you’re interesting to talk to. You can’t just sit there and not say anything.” Catharine looked up and saw he was smiling. “Say something witty,” he said.

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She got a minute to think when the waiter came over and Aaron ordered the coffee, but when the waiter was gone and Aaron turned politely to her, she could only shake her head and smile.

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“Let me start a conversation, then,” Aaron said. “What was the book you were carrying yesterday?”

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“Did you see me?” Catharine asked before she thought.

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“Certainly I saw you,” Aaron said. “I see you every day. Sometimes you wear a green sweater.”

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Catharine felt that this had to be said quickly, urgently, before the moment got away from her. “I don’t like clothes at all,” she said. “I think everyone makes too much fuss over them. I think the human body is too fine.”

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Aaron stared. “Well!” he said.

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Catharine thought back on what she had said and blushed. “I didn’t mean to sound so vulgar,” she said.

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Another time, when Catharine knew how to answer more easily, Aaron asked her, “Why don’t we go to the five and ten and buy you a lipstick?”

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“My father would kill me,” Catharine said.

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“You could just wear it in school,” Aaron said. “I want my girl to be pretty.”

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Catharine carried that “my girl” around with her in her mind ever afterward; she bought a lipstick and powder and rouge and nail polish, and put them on inexpertly in the girl’s lavatory every morning before classes, and took them off each afternoon after leaving Aaron. Her father never knew; she kept them in a box in her pocketbook, and had a story prepared (“Gerry’s family doesn’t like her to wear make-up either, but she does anyway, and she asked me if I’d just keep these things—”).

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Aaron liked to sit with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth; he kept his eyes narrow when he talked, and the smoke from the cigarette went past his eyebrow. He smiled more than anyone Catharine had ever known, and she thought once that he looked satanic; she told him so and he smiled at her, smoke in his eyes.

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“The devil is the only true god,” he said.

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Once her father frightened Catharine badly by saying to her abruptly at the dinner table “You’re not running around with a young man, are you, Catharine?”

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“Catharine?” her mother said.

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“I was speaking to Mr. Blake this afternoon about a matter of business,” her father said ponderously, “and he mentioned that he had seen Catharine walking out of her business school with a young man. No one he knew.”

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“It was probably one of the instructors,” Catharine said in a clear voice. “I was probably asking about an assignment.”

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“I would not like to think that my daughter is associating with young men she is ashamed to introduce to her parents,” her father said.

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“Mother and Daddy have a great deal of faith in you,” her mother said.

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“It was probably Mr. Harley, our typing instructor,” Catharine said. “I had to ask him about an assignment and we walked down the hall talking and out the door. I did the wrong assignment and had to find out what to make up.”

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“You should have told him to go to hell,” Aaron said later when Catharine told him.

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“Someday I will,” Catharine said.

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“Yes, Daddy dear,” Aaron said in a high voice, “I am associating with a young man I am definitely ashamed to introduce to you, because he is a thief and a murderer. And he rapes young women. Even Mother wouldn’t be safe with him.”

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Catharine shook her head helplessly. “He’d die,” she said. “He’d just die.”

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When Aaron met Mr. and Mrs. Vincent he was very agreeable and Catharine was able to feel for a few minutes as though everything were going to pass off well. Aaron had escorted her home from school very properly and she had very properly invited him in. Her mother and father, sitting in the living room, watched Aaron and Catharine come in, and when Catharine said, “Mother and Daddy, this is Aaron, a friend of mine from school,” her father came over and took Aaron’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, my boy,” he said.

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“How do you do.” Aaron stood next to Catharine, comfortable in his yellow sweater.

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“Aaron is in school too,” Catharine said to her mother.

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“How do you like the school?” Catharine’s mother said.

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Conversation had continued without silences, they were sitting down, and Catharine met Aaron’s eye and he smiled. She smiled back, and then realized that her mother and father were silently waiting. Aaron said smoothly, “Look at Cara’s hands, Mrs. Vincent. They’re like white waves on a white shore. They touch her face like white moths.”

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Catharine met her father at the dinner table that night, with a sort of sick resignation that left her unsurprised when he said immediately, “I don’t know about that young man.” He thought heavily. “Your mother and I have been talking about him.”

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“It seems like your friends ought to be finer, somehow,” her mother said earnestly. “With your background.”

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“He doesn’t seem quite right, to me,” her father said. “Not quite right.”

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“We’ll find some money somehow,” her mother said, “and see if we can get you another dress. Sensible, but pretty enough to wear to parties.”

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Sitting by the window with her mother’s trunk open on the floor and her old report card (“English, B-, History, D, Geography, D”) in her hand, Catharine, to spite her mother, thought about Aaron. Because the dull eyes of William Vincent and his wife were no longer on her, because she was loose, at least, from their questions (“Catharine, have you been seeing—”) and their sudden quiet when she opened the front door, Catharine went to the little cedar box where she kept all her most secret treasures, and always had, and took out Aaron’s only letter. In the box were a bright cotton handkerchief, and a tarnished silver charm bracelet. In her years in New York she had collected a match folder from a night club, and a printed note which read “We thank you for submitting the enclosed material and regret that we cannot make use of it.” It had come attached to some watercolor impressions Catharine had sent to a magazine; she kept it because of the word “regret” and because it had been addressed to her name and addressed by someone there at the magazine, some bright golden creature who called writers by their first names and sat at chromium bars and walked different streets than Catharine did, from her apartment on West Twentieth Street to her typist’s job on Wall Street. And at the chromium bars Aaron was sitting, and he walked quickly past the bright stores, and he might be in any taxi passing, smiling at someone with his quick sudden amusement saying, “Catharine? I once cared for a girl named Catharine…”

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

York

[jɔːk]

约克郡;〈板球〉使击球员出局

Buffalo

['bʌfələʊ]

n.水牛;野牛;水陆坦克

noticeably

['nəʊtɪsəbli]

adv.显著地;明显地

virtuous

['vɜːtʃuəs]

adj.有品德的;有德行的;贞洁的

brisk

[brɪsk]

adj.敏锐的;活泼的;活跃的;轻快的;凛冽的

unpaid

[ˌʌn'peɪd]

adj.未付款的;没有报酬的

felted

['feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

hymn

[hɪm]

n.赞美诗;圣歌

resolute

['rezəluːt]

adj.坚决的;果断的

Pat

[pæt]

n.轻拍;轻打;小块

armchair

['ɑːmtʃeə(r)]

n.扶手椅;单人沙发;安乐椅

superintendent

[ˌsuːpərɪn'tendənt]

n.监督人;管理人;所长

moth

[mɒθ]

n.蠹;蛾

dutiful

['djuːtɪfl]

adj.顺从的;尽职的;责任感强的

snatch

[snætʃ]

n.抢夺;一阵;一点点

snarl

[snɑːl]

v.吼叫;嚎叫;咆哮;怒骂

erase

[ɪ'reɪz]

v.抹去;擦掉;【计算机】擦除

nickel

['nɪkl]

n.镍;镍币;五分镍币

tactful

['tæktfl]

adj.机智的;老练的

gardenia

[ɡɑː'diːniə]

n.栀子花;栀子

autograph

['ɔːtəɡrɑːf]

n.亲笔签名;手稿，原稿，手迹，真迹

unpopular

[ʌn'pɒpjələ(r)]

adj.不流行的;不受欢迎的

recess

[rɪ'ses]

n.休息;幽深处;凹缝;壁龛;放假

downstairs

[ˌdaʊn'steəz]

adj.楼下的

comfortably

['kʌmftəbli]

adv.舒服地;容易地;充裕地

backward

['bækwəd]

adj.向后的

infinite

['ɪnfɪnət]

adj.无穷的;无限的

sermon

['sɜːmən]

n.布道;说教

graceful

['ɡreɪsfl]

adj.优雅的;得体的

mute

[mjuːt]

a. 【语】无音的;

impulsive

[ɪm'pʌlsɪv]

adj.冲动的;任性的

dishwater

['dɪʃwɔːtə(r)]

n.洗碟的水;洗碗水

wool

[wʊl]

n.羊毛;绒线

knit

[nɪt]

v.编织;密接;结合;皱眉

fuss

[fʌs]

n.(神经质的)兴奋，激动；紧张；急躁;

cocoa

['kəʊkəʊ]

n.可可粉;可可饮料;可可色

make-up

[meɪkʌp]

n.化妆品;性格;补考

blush

[blʌʃ]

n.脸红;羞愧

improvise

['ɪmprəvaɪz]

v.即兴创作;即兴表演;临时准备

horrifyingly

['hɒrɪfaɪ]

令人恐惧地；叫人毛骨悚然地

complexion

[kəm'plekʃn]

n.肤色;面色;体质;特性;局面

sickly

['sɪkli]

adj.病弱的;令人作呕的;无精打采的

casting

['kɑːstɪŋ]

n.铸造

uncurl

[ˌʌn'kɜːl]

v.展开;伸直

damply

[dæmp]

潮湿地;有湿气地;沮丧地

dreaminess

['driːmi]

adj.梦幻般的;心不在焉的;不切实际的;轻柔的

chorus

['kɔːrəs]

n.合唱队;歌舞队;齐声说道;副歌部分

giggle

['ɡɪɡl]

v.咯咯地笑

acquaintance

[ə'kweɪntəns]

n.熟人;相识;了解

Daddy

['dædi]

n.爸爸

furious

['fjʊəriəs]

adj.狂怒的;猛烈的

grind

[ɡraɪnd]

v.磨;压迫;碾碎;磨得吱吱响;逐渐停顿

throng

[θrɒŋ]

n.人群;一大群;大量

trample

['træmpl]

n.踩踏

ungrateful

[ʌn'ɡreɪtfl]

adj.忘恩负义的;不领情的

uneasily

[ʌn'iːzɪli]

adv.不安地;局促地

powerless

['paʊələs]

adj.无力的;无权的;无效能的

kitchenette

[ˌkɪtʃɪ'net]

n.小厨房

frivolity

[frɪ'vɒləti]

n.轻浮;轻薄;轻佻

miserable

['mɪzrəbl]

adj.痛苦的;悲惨的;贫乏的;狼狈的

cuff

[kʌf]

n.袖口;手铐

hum

[hʌm]

vi. (蜜蜂等)作嗡嗡声;

bacon

['beɪkən]

n.培根;咸肉;熏肉

dresser

['dresə(r)]

n.化妆台;带镜衣柜;碗柜，装饰橱窗的人;着衣者，服装师;好打扮的人

handkerchief

['hæŋkətʃɪf]

n.手帕;方巾;围巾

scarf

[skɑːf]

n.围巾

fumble

['fʌmbl]

vi.摸索;笨手笨脚地做

angrily

['æŋɡrəli]

adv.气愤地

nineteen

[ˌnaɪn'tiːn]

十九

conversation

[ˌkɒnvə'seɪʃn]

n.谈话;会话

vulgar

['vʌlɡə(r)]

adj.通俗的;粗俗的;乡土的

past

[pɑːst]

a. 过去的;

ponderous

['pɒndərəs]

adj.笨重的;笨拙的;乏味的

Harley

['hɑ:lɪ]

n.哈利(姓氏;男子名)

murderer

['mɜːdərə(r)]

n.杀人犯;凶手

helpless

['helpləs]

adj.无助的;无依靠的

escort

['eskɔːt]

n.护送者;护航舰;陪伴者;陪游;妓女

Conversation

[ˌkɒnvə'seɪʃn]

n.谈话;会话

unsurprised

[ˌʌnsə'praɪzd]

adj.不曾使人吃惊的

cedar

['siːdə(r)]

n.雪松;雪松木材

tarnish

['tɑːnɪʃ]

n.晦暗;污渍

folder

['fəʊldə(r)]

n.文件夹;折叠者;折叠式印刷品

enclose

[ɪn'kləʊz]

vt.圈起;围住;附上;封入

water-color

['wɔːtərk'ɒlər]

n.水彩颜料

chromium

['krəʊmiəm]

n.【化】铬

amusement

[ə'mjuːzmənt]

n.乐趣，娱乐;消遣

bracelet

['breɪslət]

n.手镯

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